


phantom pains

by nilchance



Series: ain't this the life [12]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Underfell Papyrus, cross-universe bullshit shenanigans, detailed content notes in end notes, offscreen fellcest, offscreen kustard, sans as judge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 23:16:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15350913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/pseuds/nilchance
Summary: Edge can’t argue that Sans works less often as a judge than Red ever has.





	phantom pains

This world is not as different as Edge’s as its inhabitants would like to claim, but Edge can’t argue that Sans works less often as a judge than Red ever has.

He doesn’t know why. It could be because this Asgore doesn’t have a hair-trigger temper and a raging case of paranoia, a side effect of his high LV, or just because the guard handles anything less than assault or murder without an official judgment. (Most criminals confess, guilt-ridden, begging for help. It’s pathetic.) In the seven months that Edge has been here, Asgore has only called on Sans three times.

Edge doesn’t know the specifics of the judgments. Only three people are allowed in the room, a new judgment hall tucked conveniently in the depths of the embassy, away from prying human eyes. Asgore, Sans, and the accused. Edge knows that he can’t hear the sounds of violence through the door. He knows that Asgore has always opted for rehabilitation instead of execution because he’s a soft-hearted fool. He knows that Sans comes out of the judgment hall mostly himself.

He knows that this time was different.

It's been an hour since the judgment, long enough for the criminal to be escorted back to a cell somewhere. No doubt that the king has insisted his cells be as comfortable as possible. It’s quiet now. Even the king has gone back to his apartment, lingering only long enough to speak to Edge before he retreats.

It’s on the king’s word that Edge knows where to find Sans. He’s shut himself in the break room intended for the guards, apparently. It’s quiet. There’s a table in the center of the room, an assortment of playing cards scattered across the surface along with the crumbs of dog bones. Pushed against one wall, there’s a slightly gnawed on couch. Sans is stretched out on it, one arm flung over his eyes to keep the light out. He doesn’t stir when Edge comes in.

It's Sans, sleeping. It's not Red Fallen on the kitchen floor, silent, extinguished. The memory makes Edge sound harsher than he means to be. "Sans.”

Sans shifts and opens his eyes. For a moment, something old looks at Edge behind them. It's pure calculation, reducing Edge down to the sheer binary of his guilt.

Edge doesn't flinch. He's faced that look too many times before. He doesn't care for the judge any more than it cares for him. After everything it's cost Red, every time Red has been summoned by Asgore to the judgment hall and come staggering back hollow-eyed and wearing the blood of other monsters, Edge would tear it out of his brother if he could.

Then it's only Sans, rumpled and tired, looking at Edge like he usually does, like Edge is some wounded creature likely to bite. He sits up a little. "Oh. Hey. Sorry, just resting my eyes for a couple minutes. I'm on my way out."

Edge sets a travel mug of coffee on the table in front of Sans and stands back, his arms crossed. "I found that in the kitchen."

There. Edge isn’t technically offering food. From the way Sans's mouth turns up at one corner, he sees the loophole for what it is. "Welp, guess it'd be a shame to let it go to waste."

Edge watches him take a sip. He looks pleased. He should be. Edge put a frankly obscene amount of sugar in it, just the way Red likes it. Well, mostly, but Edge refuses to put condiments in coffee.

"I gather that it was a difficult judgment," Edge says. The king had looked every one of his years when he left the judgment hall. The criminal, limp between two of the guards escorting him out, had been weeping. The judge had seethed behind Sans’s eyes as he pushed past Edge without a word.

The corners of Sans's eyes tighten. He takes another sip before he says simply, "Kids. They're alive but-- yeah."

Edge stares at him, appalled. "And the king is letting him live?"

"He doesn't kill monsters," Sans says. His expression is carefully neutral. "Your Asgore does?"

"He has to keep order," Edge says. He's heard Undyne say that often enough that the words come easily. "But when it comes to children, he can be particularly... thorough. Very few people are stupid enough to hurt a child these days."

Sans's gaze drops to his hand. Almost to himself, he says, "Well. That explains a lot."

"Does it?" Edge asks. "And what does it explain?"

Sans meets his eyes as if startled that Edge is still standing there. He replaces his easy smile. "I've been working on this crossword and I needed a six-letter word for murderous tyrant with standards. Asgore should work. Anyway, shouldn't you be home? Fuck knows what Red's doing without supervision."

"The king asked me to drive you home," Edge says.

"Nice of him. I'm fine, though. I know a shortcut."

"You seem to have misunderstood," Edge says. "The king gave me an order."

"It wasn't exactly an order, dude. He's a pushover. You--" Sans must see the total lack of give in Edge's expression. He sighs. "Can I get some more of this abandoned mystery coffee first?"

Edge raises his brow. "Do I look like I live to fetch and carry for you? Get it yourself."

"The depression's moved into my legs," Sans says. "It's super depression. Super double depression."

Edge pinches the top of his nasal ridge. Then he turns on his heel and goes to the staff kitchen. There's a carafe of overbrewed, tar-black coffee always on offer. The royal guard has taken to it after spending time with the humans, much to Asgore's quiet horror. He dumps sugar in the mug and stomps back to Sans, thrusting it at him like a weapon. "I found this, etcetera, etcetera."

This is the point where Red would usually smirk and say something mildly (or massively) insulting. Sans takes the coffee and grins up at him. "Thanks."

Taken off guard, Edge says, "... You're welcome. Now can you walk to the car, at least?"

Clutching his ill-gotten gains, Sans gets up. "Yeah, I'm good. Miraculously recovered from the super double depression. It's a scientific miracle. Somebody oughta write a paper."

Edge falls into step a little behind him. Red would accept a steadying hand on the back of his neck, a touch to ground him as he shakes off the judge's lingering presence, but Sans wouldn't welcome that. So Edge just follows him out the break room, herding him towards the exit. A few people in the building greet Sans in passing because he really does seem to know everyone, an information network of his own, and Sans answers smoothly back without ever slowing down or making actual eye contact. He won't want to see anyone's expressions.

Then they're out in the parking garage and the cool night air. The breeze carries the scent of gasoline and city. If overpopulation had a smell, it would be this.

Edge's car is parked close, at least, sleek and black and stylish against a sea of sensible minivans. Edge fondly touches its hood when he gets within reach.

"Do you and your car need a minute?" Sans asks. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Just because you abuse the laws of physics instead of driving doesn't mean the rest of us can't appreciate the aesthetics of a classic car," Edge says. He unlocks it. "I should make you ride in the trunk for insulting her."

"I could always physics-abuse my way home," Sans says mildly. Edge narrows his eyes, and Sans huffs a laugh. "Fine. My bad. I'll try to be nicer to your gal.”

Edge gestures impatiently at the passenger seat. Sans gets in, unhurried, gripping his coffee like it's going to save him. Edge has to clear his throat pointedly before Sans puts his seatbelt on.

"Suddenly I realize why Tori lets you drive the kid to school," Sans says.

"I'm excellent with children," Edge says. "Especially since I seem to be the only adult I know."

He turns the keys in the ignition and realizes his mistake a few seconds too late. The bouncy strains of Carly Rae Jensen ring through the car. Edge quickly slaps the volume button into silence.

"Not a word," Edge says through his teeth.

Sans shifts, laying his head back against the seat. "You're a pretty cool guy, edgelord."

Edge stares at him hard. Sans looks almost wistful. "Sarcasm?"

"Nope," Sans says. "There's nothing cooler than somebody who's totally himself and fuck what anybody else has to say about it."

Edge has been complimented before, of course. There are always people who think toadying him will grant them some kind of influence or at least make him spare their lives. Undyne (this or the other) has complimented his fighting abilities. Papyrus has admired his ambition and his position in the guard. At the very least, Red waxes rhapsodic about the virtues of Edge's dick. But that idle praise from Sans, spoken as if it's totally obvious, warms him deeply.

He puts the car in gear and says to the windshield, "And you're an expert on coolness, naturally."

"Me? Fuck no. I just spend a lot of time around Papyrus.” Out of the corner of Edge's eye, he sees Sans watching him. "You’re pretty all right when you’re not trying to be such a hardass all the time."

"Of course. What a fool I've been not to think of that," Edge says. He can taste the bitterness of the words. "You know nothing about where I came from."

"I don't," Sans agrees. "I also don't know if or when you're gonna get pulled back. Might as well enjoy the good times while you have 'em. Listen to pop music. Smile once in a while. Maybe even wear a color other than red. Live a little, y’know?"

"Good to know spouting philosophical bullshit when you're tired is a universal trait," Edge says.

Sans snorts. "I'm not Red."

"I realize that. Red has a much different view on things."

"Do you realize it?" There's a razor hidden under the casual question. “You sure about that, buddy?”

"Yes," Edge says. "Do you realize I'm not the damaged version of Papyrus?"

A long beat of silence. Sans sighs. "Okay. Y'know, that's fair. I deserve that."

"So kind of you to agree," Edge says. “Whatever would I do without a judge to tell me so?”

Sans rubs tiredly at his brow like he has a headache. "You're not damaged. I mean, no more than anybody's damaged." A particularly humorless laugh. "It's not like fucked up shit can't happen here."

Edge glances at him. That doesn’t sound like the bitterness of judging one crime, however awful. Sans sounds too much like Red. “Such as?”

Predictably, Sans ignores the question. In an entirely different tone, Sans says, "Besides, then I'd be out of a job. Probably the cushiest one I got, to be honest."

Edge has seen Red cast judgment. He was on the wrong end of the judgment hall at the time, Asgore’s punishment for some imagined act of rebellion. It was like a bright light shining through a cracked and imperfect lens, just as likely to set a fire that could warm your bones or to burn a forest to ash. Cushy isn't exactly the word he'd use for it.

“Ah yes,” Edge says. “All it takes is some mild possession. That’s nothing compared to customer service.”

“Spoken like you’ve never worked customer service.” Sans takes a deep drink from the travel mug and then looks at it forlornly. “Damn. Talk to me, edgelord. Things you actually like: cats, pop music, muscle cars. Anything else?”

Edge looks at him sidelong. “Why do you want to know?”

“Trying not to confuse you with Papyrus,” Sans says. “Kinda hard when I don’t know much about you except your bad taste in dudes and how many people you’ve killed. Plus I’m trying not to fall asleep like a toddler on a long car ride. Does it usually take this long?”

“You’ve been spoiled by your shortcuts,” Edge says. Sans shrugs. “Fine. You first.”

“I’m not that interesting,” Sans says.

“I disagree.”

“Bad taste in dudes,” Sans says. Then he makes a face like he would pull the words back if he could. Too close to acknowledging what he’s pointedly gone back to ignoring. “I like science. Bad jokes. Bad coffee. Long walks on the beach. Pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. Your turn.”

Edge resents the fact that he understands that reference. Red’s sense of humor can be a terrible thing. “Quantum physics?”

“Yep,” Sans says. “Even did my thesis on the potential applications of multiverse theory for getting past the barrier. Never finished it, though. Which is good, because you guys showing up would’ve debunked half of my conclusions anyway.”

“Why didn’t you finish it?” Edge knows why Red didn’t. Having one’s thesis advisor suddenly cease to exist can throw a wrench in one’s plan for graduation. Red had come home still reeking of smoke, grabbed Edge, and bolted from the city like hell itself was close behind them, leaving everything else behind.

“Hit a, uh, dead end. I wasn’t really cut out for it.” Sans shrugs. “S’okay. What was I gonna do with it, teach bored college kids?”

Edge stumbled upon Sans tutoring Frisk in math once. He remembers the light in Sans’s eyes when he walked them through it, talking with his hands, actually animated for once. Sans had looked very sheepish when he realized Edge was watching, as if Edge caught him at playing with matches. “You’d be good at it.”

Sans waves a dismissive hand. “I’m happier if it’s just a hobby. Harder to screw things up. Your turn.”

“Hm.” It’s certainly more information than Edge honestly expected Sans to give him. Apparently he needs to catch Sans after a difficult judgment more often. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, gauging how likely Sans is to mock what he’s thinking of saying. Red knows about it and leaves it alone, as does his version of Undyne. He didn’t give Edge shit about the music. It’s probably all right. “I knit.”

Sans turns to look at him. Edge meets his eyes for a moment, daring him to say something, until he has to go back to staring out the windshield for the sake of road safety. All Sans says is, “You’ve got a cat. Isn’t that a problem?”

“Doomfanger is a very well behaved cat,” Edge says. It may be a little defensive. “He’s only mauled me a few times. I don’t mind restarting if he makes a mess of things. It gives me something to do with my hands, and the needles can double as weapons if need be. Very efficient.”

“Cool,” Sans says with all apparent sincerity. “That where you got your scarf?”

Edge touches it with his fingers. “... No. My brother made this for me when I was a child. He’s the one who taught me. He doesn’t do it anymore, though. It’s too much like actual effort.”

“Can’t see him having the patience for it,” Sans agrees. “Of course, I don’t have the patience for it either, so what do I know?”

“Ironic, considering your dominant trait,” Edge says.

Sans grins at him. “Yeah. Alanis-level irony.”

Edge has no idea what an Alanis is. All he knows is that this is the more relaxed Sans has been in his company. Perhaps it’s something about the intimate darkness of the inside of the car, punctuated by passing headlights, and the hum of the engine. Edge regrets the fact that they’re already on Sans and Papyrus’s street. He can see the Christmas lights burning from here. Sans is probably too observant for Edge to get away with quietly circling the block to steal another few minutes of his time while he’s in this mood.

Too late. Sans unslouches a little at the sight of his home. He stretches and a couple of his joints pop. “Red stuck with it long enough to make you that scarf, though. When you needed it.”

Edge frowns at him. “Obviously. Do you have a point?”

“No point,” Sans says, clearly meaning otherwise. “It’s none of my business. Heh. Point. See, because it’s knitting--”

“I’m aware,” Edge says. They’ve reached the house. He pulls up to the curb and watches Sans undo his seatbelt. “Should I walk you inside?” He hasn’t forgotten the graffiti spraypainted on their front door or the neighbors that watch a little too closely.

“Nah,” Sans says. He puts the travel mug in the passenger side cupholder because Edge clearly lives to have custody of his trash. “You can tell Asgore you babysat me with a clear conscience. Thanks for the ride. And the conversation.”

“Of course,” Edge says. He intends to leave it at that, but impulse makes him say when Sans is about to close the car door behind him, “Sans?”

“That’s the name. Don’t wear it out. Seriously, it’s getting twice as much use these days.”

“The book I gave you,” Edge says. “Your soul--”

“I’m working on it,” Sans says a little too promptly.

It’s too goddamn familiar from dealing with Red’s bullshit before he Fell. A flare of temper, hot and blinding. Edge draws in a breath to ask him what the _fuck_ , doesn’t he understand what he’s playing with, doesn’t he know what losing him would do to Papyrus, of all the reckless and irresponsible--

Which would be an excellent way of making sure Sans either doesn’t do it at all or drags it out another several weeks for the sake of avoidance and spite. Sans doesn’t respond like Red would. Edge has to modify his approach.

Edge exhales slowly, grasping for patience. “It’s important.”

“I know.”

“I’m concerned.”

Sans looks away, drumming his fingers on the car door. “Look, I’ll make time. I’ll give you a book report and everything. Don’t worry so much.”

“Give me your word,” Edge says.

“I don’t have a great history with promises.” When Edge looks at him, unyielding, Sans sighs. “Okay. I swear I’ll read it. Soon. Happy?”

“Rarely,” Edge says. “But I’ll accept it.”

“You’re a peach,” Sans says, completely deadpan. He shuts the door, securing that he has the last word.

Edge lingers by the curb, the engine idling, until Sans gets inside. Before Sans can even touch the door, Papyrus flings it open. They look at each other, Papyrus with a worried crease between his brows and Sans staring at Papyrus’s face with something like naked relief. Edge imagines that it would be a comfort when the judge is riding Sans hard to look at Papyrus, who’s never killed, who is so determinedly kind, who has nothing to be judged guilty for.

Edge hasn’t been able to give Red that comfort in a long time.

Papyrus moves out of the way, shooing Sans inside. Edge can see his mouth move as he speaks, probably scolding him for some harmless reason or another, and Sans lets himself be pushed. For a moment, Papyrus looks at the car and meets Edge’s eyes. Edge nods. Of course he brought Sans back to him. If it were Red, Papyrus would do the same. They have a moment of perfect understanding. Papyrus smiles; he looks tired. Then he closes the door.

The car seems very quiet, suddenly.

_Red stuck with it long enough to make you that scarf, though. When you needed it._

There’s never been any question that Edge’s brother cares about him. It’s as certain as gravity. He’s seen Red do a great many terrible things for his sake, and Edge has done the same. They care about each other violently, desperately. Which is why Red fights so hard to keep Edge from getting himself killed by being soft. Weak. Kind. Their world has very little mercy for what’s kind.

But they’re not in that world right now, are they.

… Sans is right. It’s none of his business.

Edge hits the volume button. Music fills the car and drowns out the resentful morass of his thoughts. Might as well enjoy it, indeed.

It’s going to be a long drive home.

***

Humans don't have an exclusive claim on tragedies. There are plays and books written by monsters about war and loss and despair, even if they tapered way off after the deaths of Asriel and the fallen human. Sans was taught one of the less depressing ones in high school, an epic poem about a queen who went to war and left her king behind to manage their people. 

In retrospect, it's pretty clear that it was fanfic about Toriel and Asgore, but that'd gone over his head when he was a kid. He just remembers the overwrought descriptions of the king thinking his wife was dead and his soul cracking under the strain. The teacher glossed over that part, clearly uncomfortable. Some of the parents complained, and they switched to another book real fast. He'd been pretty happy for an excuse not to bother with it; literature is more Papyrus's thing. But Sans remembers how the book lingered on the king after his soul cracked, wasting away, sighing a lot, occasionally swooning. Broken. Fragile. The words 'tragically beautiful' might've been used.

Sans has a hard time picturing Red or Edge swooning, and there's nothing particularly beautiful about cold fingers and a perpetual nagging ache in his chest. The doomed thing, yeah, he's pretty sure he's fucked, but not because he has a couple little stress fractures in his soul. The kid with flexible ethics and the ability to reset time is the bigger concern.

Still. If reading the book about soul trauma is the only way to get Edge off his back, he'll be happy to do it. He'll read it cover to cover with a song in his fucking heart. He’s got time; he called out of work to do the judge thing and even after soaking up Papyrus’s company for a few hours, his mind is too loud to sleep.

(Kids. Why did it have to be goddamn kids? Why did it have to be brothers?)

(And here sits the judge, whining about how hard his life is.)

On closer examination, the book is less textbook and more an instructional manual for healers. It looks hastily printed and slapped together, issued to healers by the government in response to a crisis. The publishing date is right after Toriel’s kids died.

There's a couple chapters on how to bring a soul out, including if the person is unconscious. Not a problem, considering that the only things between his soul and the outside world are his ribs and a couple shirts. He skips that section and the one that's basically a breakdown of what souls are made of and why emotional trauma can break them, which he's heard Alphys nerd out about enough times to know the basic principles. He lingers on the stuff about symptoms: lowered body temperature, racing pulse, dizziness, fatigue, soul pain, insomnia, progressing all the way to blackouts, numbness, loss of control over magic, Falling Down. Good times.

He skips to the section of the book that's the most heavily dogeared, thumbed through until the edges of the pages have gone a little soft. Treatment options. The chapter opens with a disclaimer: _Due to the nature of soul trauma, the authors strongly advise that any monster experiencing symptoms be treated by trusted friends and family or by a professional healer. Self-treatment is to be attempted in emergencies only._

Yeah, right. He'll just slink off to Papyrus for help. _Hey, bro, listen, it turns out I've been lying to you for the last six years. My bad. Can you do me a solid and don't ask any awkward questions while you fix my mistakes like always? Thanks. You're the best._

And he's not putting his life in the hands of another doctor. He's not making that mistake ever again.

So. The third option it is. Honestly, he gets the impression that most people from Red and Edge’s timeline are loners who’d sooner dust than trust someone to help them. He’s not the first person to ignore the disclaimers.

Sans flips to the section about self-treatment, ignoring another disclaimer in even bigger letters. There's a couple pages on various psychological bullshit. Blah blah, spending time with family and friends to help with mood, blah blah, talking about your problems, blah blah, emotional intimacy and communication, etcetera. Not relevant unless he suddenly decides to be honest, and if he could make himself do that, he would've by now just to make Papyrus stop looking at him like he can’t trust Sans anymore even if he’s trying like hell to. The one bit that catches his attention is in the middle of the paragraph, blunt as hell: _Sexual intimacy with a trusted partner can help manage symptoms_.

Holy shit. No wonder he felt like hell after a few days without fucking Red. He's self-medicating with Red's dick. It's simultaneously a relief because finally he has an excuse for his bad judgment aside from having a really good time and horrifying because when the fuck did Red become anything like a "trusted partner"? 

He wonders if Edge knows about the whole sex as a treatment thing. Maybe that'd get Edge off his back about his soul. _Look, I'm being treated by your bro, Dr. Feelgood. He prescribes an orgasm every other day or so._

Sans realizes belatedly that he's rubbing at the ache in his chest again. He makes himself stop.

Finally, the authors stop beating around the bush and get to the point. The header is **SOUL MANIPULATION** in big bold letters. Beneath it, there's a diagram of a cracked soul (the fracture is neat and delicate, don't want to turn anybody's stomach) and a numbered list of instructions beneath it.

_1) Ask the patient to bring out their soul in a secure, quiet environment. It's best that the patient feel safe and calm. Provide reassurance._

"Cool your tits," he tells himself helpfully. Yep. He feels super reassured.

_2) Take hold of the patient's soul, being careful not to touch the damaged area. Give them a moment to adjust to your presence. It's very easy for your emotions to affect the patient so remain calm and keep your mind clear._

He can ignore most of that, since he's treating himself. All he has to do is not think about anything he doesn't want to. He's been managing that for years.

He reaches under his ribs. It feels weird. The angle is awkward. He hesitates for a second before making contact, his hand wavering. He's being ridiculous. People do this all the time. He'll be fine.

He closes his fingers around his soul.

It hurts. 

Not just the physical pain that carves right through him like a knife. There's a sudden weight in his chest, leaden and black, and he can't breathe past the fear in his throat. It tastes like a plastic feeding tube. Everything he's been choking down, the grief and the rage and the helpless fear, all of it crashes in on him at once and it _hurts_ \--

He yanks his hand back so fast that he scrapes his wrist on the inside of his ribs, shaving decimal points off his HP. The pain doesn't recede. It just rings through him, echoing in the hollow spaces, and so much of him is empty. It takes a long time.

Finally, the din gets quieter. Quieter. Then it stops, leaving him a shivering wreck in the center of his mattress. At some point, he curled up in the fetal position. He doesn't remember doing it. His breathing is loud and ragged. He doesn't know if he made a noise.

But Papyrus doesn't come. Nobody comes. The world drags mercilessly on. 

Bury it. Just bury it all. Rub some dirt on it and get up. He doesn't feel anything. He's fine. He's fine. He's fine.

Eventually, it's true. He wipes his face, but it's bone-dry. Not exactly surprising; he hasn’t cried in years. He clears his throat and sits up. His soul throbs dully like a migraine, a sharper pain waiting to burst into life if he so much as breathes wrong.

He knew that Red and Edge were into pain. He apparently underestimated how hardcore they got, like 'bashing your dick with a hammer' levels of kinky. It makes him a little sick to think of Edge hurting Red like this on purpose. It’s necessary, but--

He looks back down at the open book. The list of instructions stares back at him like an accusation. He couldn't even get to the third step. A cold sweat prickles on his back at the thought of trying again now that he knows how bad it is.

He’ll try again later, if he can work up the nerve. He’s not numb or blacking out. It’s only one or two (or three) little cracks; if Red’s still walking around, Sans can suck it up. He’s made it this far. No big deal.

Sans flips the book shut and shoves it back into his inventory. "Sorry, edgelord."

Sans promised to read the book. He read it. End of story.

**Author's Note:**

> Content notes: Involves a headcanon for what it is to be the judge that is described as low-key possession. Sans ends up judging a case about someone hurting kids, which brings up some references to past child abuse for Sans and Papyrus. Reference to Red having to judge (and hurt) Edge in Underfell before the series starts. Sans also touches his soul and has a bad time.


End file.
